


Green Eyed Monster

by possessedbylight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealousy, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedbylight/pseuds/possessedbylight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester brothers don't know the meaning of the word 'jealous' - especially not when it comes to each other. They're both far above jealousy, thank you very much. Sam/OC make out session, implied Wincest sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Eyed Monster

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the lack of actual porn, but everyone has to start somewhere, right?

Sam Winchester was not jealous. He went to Stanford, learned to drive a stick shift at age fourteen, and is capable of killing a rugaru with one hand tied behind his back. Jealousy is not a word in his incredibly vast vocabulary. Dean can hook up with whomever he wants, and it won’t affect Sam in the least. That blonde bitch has nothing to do with the guy Sam currently has pinned against the wall between the bathrooms in some dingy bar in Texas.  
No, he was simply enjoying the simple things in life, such as Southern drawls and the skilled tongue it takes to speak with one. Specifically, having said skilled tongue halfway down his throat as a sharp silver belt buckle digs into his waist. If Dean can fuck around with ease, then by God, so could he.  
But, like he said, Dean has nothing to do with this.  
This was about him and – uh… Okay fine, so he doesn’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s tall, he has these gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy drawl, so who the hell cares about a couple letters? Whatever his name is, he’s rutting up against Sam, and the friction feels so fucking good that Sam completely forgets that names even exist. He drags the tip of his fingers along the guy’s belt buckle, just barely touching the tan skin underneath it with his fingernails. He moans against Sam’s jaw, his breath hot as that talented little tongue of his slowly works its way to the base of Sam’s neck.  
Sam puts one hand on the wall behind him to steady himself, his other hand lazily trailing down his back as if he’s in no hurry to reach the guy’s ass even though he’s clearly begging for it, arching up into Sam to give him better access. But Sam isn’t feeling particularly giving at the moment, so he switches gears entirely just to make the guy lose his mind – he presses himself tightly against him until his body is probably digging into the wall. The guy whimpers quietly, protesting at his inability to move his hips under Sam’s crushing weight, but Sam just grins against his lips and keeps him pinned there.  
He’s so used to being the one who has to submit – always following Dean’s orders, living in his shadow – but this guy is putty in his hand, just begging to be molded anyway Sam wants him to be. And fuck it’s driving him crazy to see someone like this, folding to him, letting him be in charge.  
He tastes like grape Jell-O shots and spearmint gum, and Sam hates both of those things but it doesn’t matter, because he’s got his fingers hooked on Sam’s belt loops, trying to pull him in closer to make up for the fact that he can’t move. And Sam finally cuts the guy a break, rocking forward once and keeping that pressure steady, digging his hipbones into him. The blonde head falls back against the wall, eyes shutting and mouth popping open just a little bit at the motion, and that is a damn good look on him, so Sam can’t help but rock forward a few more times.  
Sam watches his swollen lips form a silent moan, and it’s all for him and it’s driving him fucking nuts. The guy must be going just as insane, too, because he opens those big blue eyes up again and fixes Sam with a look that could make anyone’s knees shake. “We – we should go somewhere,” he stutters in a hoarse voice, clearly a little overwhelmed.  
And Sam can’t help it – his eyes flick back to the half empty room at the end of the hall, to one particular table near the back… “Or,” Sam begins, biting the guy’s bottom lip delicately and making his eyes snap shut and his chin tilt, reaching up to Sam. “We could stay right here.”  
He’s nodding frantically, groaning into Sam’s mouth as he reclaims it, kissing away all thoughts of ever leaving their little corner of this bar that apparently can’t afford proper lighting.  
Sam’s no exhibitionist or anything, but just thinking about Dean sitting at the table not thirty feet away from him, watching him feel up this random guy – shit it’s a nice thought. It shouldn’t be, but there’s a lot of things he feels about Dean that he shouldn’t.  
Obviously, jealous isn’t one of them though, because he doesn’t care if Dean fucks all of this god-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere. He can screw every goddamn girl on this side of the Equator, and Sam won’t even bat an eye, because what’s it to him? Sam doesn’t need Dean, because he’s got Grape Jell-O Shots and Spearmint Gum Guy – he swears the guy’s name starts with a ‘J’ or something – and Dean would never let Sam take control like this guy will.  
Not that Dean would ever be with Sam like this…  
The guy is trying to pull Sam’s focus back, biting and sucking on his neck hard enough to leave a mark and Sam is not thinking about what Dean will think of that mark because he doesn’t care. Sam rolls his hips once, and the sudden friction makes the guy’s breath hitch in the most gorgeous way, and Sam is trying to think of ways to reward him when suddenly there’s a hand on his back that cannot possibly belong to What’s His Name.  
He’s being yanked back roughly, his lip catching on What’s His Name’s teeth in surprise. “What the –”  
“Come on, Casanova, you’ve had your fun,” growls a familiar and irritated voice, and Sam can’t keep the smirk off his face because he was right – Dean had been watching them from the table.  
“Hey – hey! Excuse me,” What’s His Name whines, lurching forward unsteadily and grabbing Sam’s arm possessively. His pupils are blow wide, and Sam can hardly see the pretty blue irises that had drawn him in just as quickly as the drawl that’s now almost entirely hidden behind the slur of alcohol. He tells himself that those two defining losses are why the guy is suddenly nowhere near as appealing as he had been – it’s just the eyes and the slur, it has nothing to do with Dean being here. “We’re kinda busy here ’f’ya don’t mind.”  
Dean just rolls his eyes, breaking the guy’s grasp on Sam’s bicep easily and giving him a forceful shove into the wall behind them. “Trust me, buddy, today is not the day to mess with me.”  
“Dean,” Sam complains, priding himself on the fact that his words are still discernible despite the fact that he probably hadn’t drank this much in years. “I wanna stay here with – with, uh – this guy.”  
It isn’t really true, to be honest – all Sam can taste is grape and mint and vodka and it’s sour and strong but not good without a tongue there to sweeten the deal, and he’s not really feeling it with this guy anymore. But it doesn’t matter what he wants, because Dean’s fucking the whole town and maybe it’s Sam’s turn to get a bit of action. He’s waited around long enough for Dean, he deserves to have someone pay attention to him for once. Not that this is about Dean, because dammit not everything has to be about Dean.  
“Lucas,” Grape Jell-O Shots and Mint Gum pipes up, apparently not at all offended by the fact that Sam had obviously forgotten his name after less than half an hour. He’s got this eager look on his face, too, foolishly thinking that Sam’s opinion matters, and that he’s going to be pushed against the wall again, but under slightly friendlier terms. Sam knows better, though – knows exactly where this is headed just by looking at the set of Dean’s jaw, the hardness of his green eyes.  
The guy – Lucas, Sam corrects himself – looks like he’s about to say something else, but Dean effectively cuts him off, taking a step forward and punching him square in the jaw. The guy reels back, completely caught off guard by this turn of events, tripping over his own feet and hitting the ground with an echoing thud. He lies there, blinking up at the ceiling as his mind struggles to catch up, but Dean’s already dragging Sam in the opposite direction.  
His voice may be steady, but Sam’s feet are anything but – they seek out any irregularity in the old floorboards, every chair and table in the entire joint, even fumbling over each other a few times. But Dean isn’t slowing down; he just keeps tugging Sam by the wrist, intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible.  
Cool, fresh air wraps around them as soon as they’re out the door, and Sam drinks it in, trying to sober up. Dean’s a ticking time bomb right now, sure to explode the second they pull up at the motel, and Sam wants to be able to spell “motel” by then so he can defend himself. He isn’t sure what Dean’s so pissed about, but Sam must have royally fucked up this time because he’s positively fuming. Completely silent, of course, but Sam can practically see steam coming out of his ears.  
The real tell is how hard he slams the door to the Impala – she screeches in protest and the whole car shakes a little, and Sam starts planning what he wants on his tombstone as he quietly slumps into the backseat. Sam had known it was bad, there was no point lying about it; but bad enough to bring on Impala Abuse?  
He’s fucked.  
And, thanks to Dean, he didn’t even get to be literally fucked first. What a night.  
The whole drive home is uncomfortable, to say the least; the silence is weighing down on them, making it a little difficult to breathe. Sam feels like this should be easier than it is – they fight all the time, and Sam has let his brother down more than either of them could possibly count – so why is he still scared shitless?  
He can’t even look at the back of Dean’s head as he drives, so he faces the inside of the seat, rubbing his face idly against the upholstery. If only he could doze off, just slip out of the world for a few hours and put off whatever conversation Dean is currently mapping out in his mind. But that would make things far too simple, so naturally Sam is feeling wired and jittery. He just wants to get this over with, to let Dean say what he needs to say and take a swing if he feels he deserves it, and be able to go from there.  
Sam would apologize, Dean would forgive him, life would go on like it always had.  
It doesn’t feel like that’s a possibility at the moment, though, as Dean pulls into a parking space at the motel, leaving the car without a word or even a glance back at Sam. Sam takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the hell to come before opening the door and heaving himself out. He stares at their room – the white painted ‘6’almost half flaked off the red door – and imagines Dean standing in front of his bed, arms crossed and wearing a stern expression. He composes himself as best he can, wearing the most innocent and solemn look he can muster, and pushes the door open before he can talk himself out of it.  
To his surprise, Dean isn’t waiting for him when he opens the door. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to notice when Sam comes in; he just keeps flipping through the channels on the shitty TV from the 90’s, lounging back on his bed like nothing happened. But that pissed off look is still there, his lips pressed tightly together and his jaw locked.  
The silent treatment it is, then.  
Dean heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment, Sam, don’t flatter yourself,” Dean grumbles, and Sam wonders how long he’s been thinking out loud, feeling his face go warm.  
“You’re mad, though,” Sam observes, sinking down on the corner of his bed and looking at Dean’s boots on the green carpet across from him.  
Sam looks up in time to catch Dean gritting his teeth. “I’m not mad, and I’m not giving you the silent treatment. This isn’t about you, so drop it.”  
Ah, the famous drop it – Dean’s favorite line, and Sam’s biggest pet peeve. Whenever things get even remotely deep or emotional, Dean brushes them off with a quick “drop it”, as if that solves everything. Sam’s going to drop the subject now, and as long as they don’t have to talk about it, it isn’t a real problem and they don’t have to deal with it. It’s a foolproof plan, in Dean’s eyes.  
“If you’re not mad,” Sam begins, watching Dean’s face closely for a reaction. “Why did you punch that guy at the bar and take me home like I’m some snot-nosed brat?”  
“Because you are a snot-nosed brat,” Dean snaps, clicking the remote much harder than necessary. He quickly pulls himself in line again, though, masking his face over and keeping his expression stony. “You’re just a kid, and I didn’t like the way that guy was all over you.”  
Sam glowers at him. “‘M not a kid, Dean. And I did you stop to think that maybe I liked the way he was all over me? That just maybe, that was my intention?”  
Dean doesn’t respond, just turns his attention back to some stupid sitcom on TV.  
Typical.  
Sam is so goddamn tired of this – of everything Dean does. Ignoring him, getting pissed about nothing, then pretending everything’s peachy while harboring some secret grudge over something Sam can’t even defend himself for, because Dean won’t tell him what he did. How the hell are they ever going to fix anything if Dean won’t say what Sam’s doing to make him so angry?  
“So, I guess the moral of this whole this is ‘Dean can fuck whoever he wants, whenever he wants, but Sam can’t have any fun’?” he challenges, not caring if he sounds like a whiney teenager. “I mean, God forbid I was allowed to let loose once in a while, right?”  
Dean slams the remote down, whirling on him. “The guy was easy as fuck, Sam, you could at least set your standards a little higher. You would have ended up with the clap if I hadn’t dragged your ass out of there. God, Sammy, it’s like you’re trying to end up like me.”  
Sam doesn’t take the bait though, because next to ‘drop it’, pity is Dean’s weapon of choice. It’s taken years for Sam to build up a resistance strong enough to get him to overlook comments like that, but somehow he’s learned. “Don’t pull that shit, Dean, he was a nice guy. And I don’t need my big brother there to decide who I can and can’t fuck, thanks. It’s not like I kicked that dumb bitch out last night – I mean, where did you even find her?”  
“Don’t look so moral, Sam, I’m sure you’ve paid for sex before, too. I wouldn’t have had to, either, if you hadn’t kept us at the library the entire day!”  
Dean’s still talking, building up steam, but Sam can hardly hear him over the ringing in his ears. His mouth runs dry and all he can do is look down at Dean’s worn out boots again. Sam had expected that she was trashy, but God, he had been so desperate he had paid someone…  
That made him madder than he wanted to admit to himself. That’s a thousand times worse than Dean tugging him off of that hot guy. Sam knows Dean doesn’t think of his brother the same way he does, but man that hurts. It shouldn’t – Dean isn’t a sick fuck like him, he doesn’t want his brother, so why would he think twice about calling a hooker? Screwing some cheap whore is better than being with Sam, he shouldn’t be surprised, but…  
“Sam, I’m talking to you,” Dean cuts in, snapping his fingers to regain Sam’s attention. He has a confused expression on his face, and Sam tries to appear as neutral as possible. It’s bad enough that he’s wounded by Dean’s actions, he doesn’t need to make things worse by having his brother find out. “Jesus, what’s going on with you?”  
Now it’s Sam’s turn to play the silent game, though; he doesn’t trust himself to speak without sounding jealous and angry, so he just shrugs. There’s no point in lying to himself anymore – he’s jealous of that girl, because Dean chose her over him. And now that he knows he had to pay her… Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse.  
“Sammy?” his tone is gentler, and Sam can’t help but follow the voice, look up into those green eyes that see him as nothing more than some kid he has to take care of. “Look, man, if you want to talk about something –”  
“It’s fine,” Sam replies automatically, lying back on the bed. “Let’s just drop it, like you said.”  
“I’m not…” Dean pauses, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he’s trying to say. Sam gives him a minute to form his thought. If he hadn’t been so intent on staying quiet, he would have told Dean that this is what happens to people who avoid ‘chick flick moments’ for too long – they get awkward. “I mean, you know I’m okay with you… sleeping with whoever you want. Right?”  
Sam scoffs, unable to let that slide without a comment. “Sure, Dean.”  
Dean lets out a deep breath, starting over. “Not like that, I mean – you can… Be attracted to whoever you want. You know I swing both ways, too, so I’m not going to judge –”  
“Dean, honestly, if I were worried about you being homophobic, I would give you permission to punch me in the face.”  
“Well, that’s a goddamn relief – I don’t even know how to have that conversation, Sam. I’d rather re-explain masturbating to you,” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, annoyed. “Alright, alright, I get it – you’re serious about whatever this is. So just come out and say it – yell at me for pulling you off that guy. Let’s hear it – and don’t hold back, I spent a lot of time teaching you how to fight, and I want to see that my efforts haven’t gone to waste.”  
“It’s not even about What’s His Name,” Sam admits, wondering to himself if he’s always been so bad with names. “I mean, yeah he was hot, but he tasted like grape Jell-O shots and spearmint gum.”  
Dean laughs. “It’s like he was trying to fend you off – that’s fate if I’ve ever seen it.”  
He clears his throat when he sees Sam isn’t being derailed from this conversation, though, and quickly composes himself. “Go on.”  
Part of him knows he should just shake Dean off and not talk about this anymore, but the hazy feeling he had in the back of the car is creeping up on him again, and he’s getting to the point where he just doesn’t care what he says. As long as the words ‘Dean, I want you to see me as more than a brother’ don’t leave his mouth, he’ll be fine, right?  
“What do you mean, more than a brother?” Dean asks, and the blood in Sam’s veins runs ice cold, sobering him up almost instantly.  
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck ,FUCK.  
What is he even supposed to say to that – how can he possibly explain such a weird ass comment? That’s not even a normal thing to think – ‘more than a brother’. God, he sounds like some kind of incestuous teenager from a Disney Channel show.  
Dean’s sitting up in his bed, finally turning to face Sam with an unreadable expression. “Sam, what –”  
“Nothing,” Sam cuts in a little more sharply than he needs to, but he’s past caring what happens now, so long as he never has to talk about this again. “I’m drunk, Dean, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”  
There’s a pause, silence stretching thin between them, before Dean finally speaks up again. “I don’t think you’re that drunk, Sammy,” he says in a hushed voice, and Sam’s mind is reeling for a way to make this stop. “So I’m going to ask you again – what did you mean by that?”  
He’s not even sure there’s a point in denying it anymore; he practically just admitted that he’s in love with his brother, what could possibly make this worse? Dean’s a smart guy – probably the smartest person Sam knows – there’s no way he can’t read between the lines on that one. Maybe if he just downplayed the situation… Really, the damage is already done, isn’t it?  
“It’s stupid,” Sam begins, blushing furiously as he stares at the green carpet even though he knows Dean is trying to meet his eye. The last thing he wants to do right now is see the disgust in his brother’s face when he finally chokes the words out. “I don’t know, it started when we were kids, and now…”  
“What started?” Dean’s voice sounds weird – constricted, almost – but Sam can’t risk looking at him to see what that means.  
Just kill me, Sam thinks. But it’s too late to turn around now – he’s tired of pretending, and the thought of having everything out there in the open is too appealing for his foggy mind to resist. Sure, Dean will never speak to him again, but at least then he’ll know how his brother feels.  
No more secrets – isn’t that what Sam’s always wanted?  
“I don’t know man… I guess, when we were younger I –” but the words are caught on the back of his tongue, choking him, and he can’t force them out. How do you admit to something like this? He’d rather plead guilty to murder than this… “Fuck, Dean, I don’t know how to say it – it’s sick, I know, I’m messed up but…”  
“Hey, Sam?” Dean asks, and Sam swallows hard, prepared for the worst. “Maybe – since you’re having so much trouble finding the words… Maybe you could show me what you mean.”  
Sam flinches. “Dean, you don’t want me to – trust me, you’ve got the wrong idea.”  
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is commanding, and Sam can’t help but turn to look at him obediently. Sam is shocked to see his brother blushing, looking more flustered than he thought him capable of feeling. “Look, I know I’m not some hot blonde guy with a drawl, but… I mean…”  
He feels so removed from this situation that he chuckles. “He could have been your hooker’s twin brother,” he says pointedly, and Dean fights to keep a grin off his face.  
“She was the exact opposite of you, Sammy, that wasn’t an accident. God, you walked around the room in a towel for an hour, baby boy, I thought my balls were gonna drop off.”  
Since Sam is ninety-nine percent positive this is a dream, he finds confidence he couldn’t imagine in such an uncharted situation. He stretches his arms out dramatically, thrilling in the way Dean’s eyes trace the movement. “Actually, now that you mention it, I was thinking about taking a shower before heading off the bed. But it’s a pretty big shower, so I figure we could kill two birds and shower at the same time. If you wanted.”  
It takes Dean a second to find his voice. “Saving water is good for the environment. And you know me, Sam – eco-friendly, through and through.”  
Sam smirks. “One condition, though,” he throws out, and Dean stops in his tracks. He gives his brother a wary look, apparently just as afraid he’s being Punk’d as Sam is. So long as Ashton gives them at least twenty minutes in the shower, he really doesn’t care what happens to him at this point. “I get to call the shots.”


End file.
